Brother in Arms
by emesisbowl
Summary: Family, hints of Canada/Ukraine. A series of drabbles/ficlets centered around the North American brothers and war. Violence, language.
1. Generation Lost

**POST WWI**

Alfred likes to keep the state of his office like the state of his mind.

He comes home.

He swipes everything from his desk to the floor in one, sweeping movement.

He stomps on the flies: foreign affairs.

He pours bottle after bottle of wine onto the box titled: war.

He destroys everything.

Burns it all.

Then he shuts the door to his office.

Locks it up, throws away the key to the plant next to the elevator doors.

And he takes up his hat, puts it over his eyes, and walks out to the city streets he calls home.

He is Alfred F. Jones, the United States of America.

It is 1918.

The streets, they are filled with people.

Happy, cheering, crying people.

It is November 11, and the Great War has ended.

This is peace.

&

Matthew scoffs at him.

You ban liquor from your people, but you drink so much. Look at you. -- Alfred is on his knees, worshiping the porcelain god, as the saying goes. Just take a good look at you.

From his prayer position, back still facing his brother, Alfred rummages in his pockets and whips out a pistol. It lies between the boarders of his legs.

Get out, he orders. Get the fuck out.

I hate you, announces Matthew.

I hate you too, answers Alfred.

The gun sings silence between them both.

&

America shows the Italy brothers what jazz is.

This is it, introduces Alfred, and the bar is smoggy and smelling like sad music and sadder sex. This is the music of my people.

Lovino glares at him, dressed like the mafia that come from his neck of the world, and he retorts,

Your people are so fragmented.

His brother only smiles at the band players, legs crossed, eyes wide open.

I understand them, he chirps. I really do.

But Lovino elbows him in the ribs, and Alfred laughs.

We fought, too, laughs Feli, and they stole everything away from us anyway. It's a joke, get it? A joke.

The chorus swells.

Up, up goes the tempo.

Everyone is all smiles. It's a good, nice night.

&

One day, a fine summer morning, Alfred visits one of his prominent writers.

Sir, Alfred exclaims, happy, as Writer pours him a cup of coffee. Sir, your words are so beautiful.

They are words, says Writer simply. They serve their purpose. They are soldiers of the wars we call literature.

But sir, insists Alfred, and Writer, is suddenly, secretly, subdued to the thought that he would die for this man. Whoever he is. He would live and fight for the sake of the being in front of him.

The feeling is quick to pass.

Sir, laughs Alfred, words live forever! And so do books!

War lives forever, too. Alfred frowns, and Writer holds back one of his own. It never ends, does it? And soldiers. Soldiers are not people. They serve their purpose, then they are thrown away.

Oh.

For a long, long time, they do nothing. See nothing. Speak nothing.

Sir, asks Alfred, finally. Were you a writer your whole life?

No, retorts Writer. I was a gunman in Italy, once.

Oh, murmurs Alfred, repeating himself.

Decades later, Writer shoots himself in the head.


	2. Story

**POST WWI  
**

Socks provide little traction on Arthur's tile floor, not even the ones with holes in them - something Alfred relearns the hard way. Clumsy, punch drunk, Alfred nearly slips-slides his way into a face plant onto the multiple frilly comforters of Arthur's plush, overstuffed bed. Reflexes snap to attention, and he catches his fall with his hands, bracing himself just inches before contact. Wills the blood caked on his skin not to drip, drip, dry.

(You've made a mess on my pillows, Alfred, scolds Arthur's unusually nasally voice in his head. Hands to hips, annoyance flushed face pulled to a snobby frown. You sodding git.)

Luckily, the real Arthur remains at the front door with Matthew, talking. Hushed, worried tones. Furrowed eyebrows( haha ).

He pushes himself up, feels the mattress springs give way to his weight. As he makes his way to Arthur's bathroom, he can hear their voices echo, stretch, dance around and across the centuries old hallways to the space around his ears. The distance fades the quality.

I don't know why he'd possibly -

You did a good thing -

But -

His brothers sound like ghosts. The dead speaking of the living. Of him.

A flick of the switch fills the master bathroom with light, but he averts his eyes from the mirror. Washes the filth from his pores with scalding hot water, all traces of his epistaxis, then looks. Really looks.

Shrugging one shoulder, Alfred smiles at himself, lopsided, imagines thousands of his people smiling back at him. Eases into a grin, teeth showing. Invisible scars stretching, twisting. Sticks out his tongue, black eye winking at him. Laughs.

It's hollow, even to him. So he tries it again. And again, until his throat becomes dry and the ghosts outside stop whispering.

Then he reaches for the switch, fingers without fumble, and drowns it all in darkness.

What a joke.

&

"There you are."

Arthur finds his son-brother on his bed in Matthew's pajamas and sleeping cap, striped red and white. Legs hanging the over side like a child.

"The bottoms to these are damned short," says the younger, reaching down to pull at the fabric that ends at his ankles. As he does so, the sleeves droop down over his knuckles. A bit too big; a bit too broad around the shoulders. Tailored for Matthew.

"Right." Terse and harsh, but Arthur's tired. He sighs, loosens his tie. "And what are you doing in here, if I may ask?"

( Why? )

"I'm corked, you know. Absolutely smashed. Thought being in here would sober me up."

"Would it really," presses Arthur, lips thin, methodically removing the golden watch from his wrist. "In my room particularly?"

"You've got it. It's the dullest place in this entire mansion."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me, old man. Or has your hearing gone along with your fashion sense?"

"Sense," sputters Arthur, repeating the word as if it transformed into something ugly and imperfect from its stay in Alfred's vocal chords, "I thought you were isolating yourself from us dreary old Europeans! Boo hoo, you bemoaned, boo hoo. And yet you're here, found disgracefully in one of my pubs of all the blasted places."

"Speaking of places," grins Alfred, as if willing Arthur's statement away with a dazzling smile, "Would it be alright for me to sleep here tonight? Here. Like in this bed, here." The empire watches his ex-colony make a sweeping motion with his hands, and feels his blood pressure rise.

There's a strained effort not to redden at the obvious change of topic, not to throw his bloody shoe at the tosspot, and for a second it works. An inhale. An especially furious unbuttoning of a button. An attempt to swallow his temper down with dignity.

"Do I have a choice now? Are you being so kind as to give me options, hm, Alfred?"

Flatly, "Sure am. Learned manners from the best, didn't I?"

"Did you say please when you punched my allied up countrymen?"

"You know me."

"Then I hope you gave your thanks when they returned the favor."

"Even asked for another, sir. Really, I did."

"Jolly good of you, then. Just peachy," sneers Arthur, sarcastic bite fitting very well with his sweater vest, ironed slack ensemble. Something Alfred is naturally used to.

"Clasped Matty on the back all friendly like when he jabbed me in the ribs, too."

"He did that," says Arthur, waving a scolding finger very pointedly and purposefully at his not-son, "Because he was everything you've done to him - every-bloody-thing - and he treats you like his brother regardless."

"Yeah, yeah."

Another sigh, and habitually, Arthur bends to fold Alfred's pile of dirty clothes. Holds a shirt in front of him, expression softening despite himself.

"And would you like some hot milk and cookies? Perhaps a story, dragons, knights, the whole she-bang?"

A beat.

And then another one, longer.

To Arthur's surprise, Alfred gives no quick, smart arsed retort. Just stares at him silently, through cloudy blue eyes and an expression slack behind comically bent wire glasses. That wounded eye, peering as if lost that hazy middle distance. Disconcerting.

So Arthur asks, "Well?"

"Well," Alfred repeats, "Yes. I suppose a story would be pretty swell."

"What-"

The embodiment of America blows a stray bang from his eyes, hands folded loosely in his lap. "If you want me to scram, I'll scram. Don't know why that Matthew brought me here anyway."

Just a boy. Just a (his)boy, in this moment.

"Fine," Arthur suddenly announces, and walks a few steps to reach into a drawer. "Have it your way."

"Have what my way?" mouths Alfred, but then there's a glint of reading spectacles and his words give way to one honest 'O'.

( Cookies, too, then?

Don't push it. )

&

And so Arthur reads him a bedtime story, sitting with one leg crossed over the other under the golden glow of the lamp. In that arm chair, a meter away from the foot of the bed where Alfred lies in a hangover daze.

And so Arthur tells him of ogres and trolls, fey and heroes, stories he's all heard before, until the weight behind his eyes sinks and sinks. Until the world fades without fanfare or magic, sleep ensnaring him gently, without warning.

And there are no more nightmares. No wars, no failures. At least for the night.

Peace.


	3. Two Baby Grands All Wet

A/N: This is more than a year old.

* * *

**POST-WWI**

Snow falls the night Matthew arrives for a rare visit, looking mighty warm and out of place in the hustle and bustle of a New York City backdrop in those heavy boots and hefty coat of his. He appears with no suitcase, just a bag thrown over his shoulder and a failing smile. Two hours in this country lit up like an accursed Christmas tree, and he's already lost –

A quick check at a large clock hanging by a building, and Matthew grudgingly admits to himself that his older brother is late, that their little appointment is possibly gone, forgotten, ancient history. Pinky swears over telegrams and weeks preparing, all for nothing. 'Well, he's Alfred,' Matthew finds himself thinking, and anxiety fills in the spaces eagerness had left him. 'Should I really have expected differently?'

He's nearly run over by bright yellow car when he hears a howl over the flurry of his thoughts – "Oi! Matty! Watch out for the traffic, won't you?" -- that makes him look up. From a balcony of a two- story bar, Alfred tips a worn and torn cowboy hat, strange as his little brother with his ranch clothes and humble jacket thrown on in a freshly pressed fashion.

"Howdy," he woops in a heavy southern slur, laden with inebriation, abrupt in the sea of slick urban dwellers and Sunday's best, "Welcome to the God blessed, liberty sought, United States of America, Matty. Don't blame me of a taxi squashes you flat!"

To which he receives varying responses of agreeing exclamations and complaining remarks from the crowd not-his-brother.

Matthew feels his face burn in humiliation, and mutters in reply, "You're the biggest bloody idiot on the planet, Alfred F. Jones!"

Alfred winks roguishly and disappears through a door leading into the bar; and for the nth time that day, Matthew's the lone subject of stares and whispers and a giggle or two. Luckily for him (or not so luckily), his host bursts on the streets a moment later, laughing loudly and smelling like beer.

"Excuse me for asking, but why on earth are you dressed like that?"

"Why the hell not?"

The two brothers hug after Matthew hits him on the shoulder in an embarrassed huff; pat each other on the back, exchange 'how do you do's and 'I missed you' s, the both of them huge friendly obstacles in a moving crowd. Matthew kisses both his cheeks in lieu of Francis' traditions taught to him so long ago, and Alfred only laughs once more, gleeful like the children they used to be.

But they're not children anymore, at least not by their standards. They're big, really big; and Alfred reminds them both of their apparent adulthood with an offer of alcohol, nice and strong, leading his guest into the bar without waiting for a response.

&

Hours filled with beautiful people in gaudy places pass in a drunken blur; and Matthew finds himself in an expensive automobile with no roof, holding onto the side of the doors for dear life as Alfred cruises 50 miles per hour on a jarring rural road. His senses scream 'stop, stop, STOP!', yet his conscious dissolves in a roar of mirth and bursts of adrenaline anyway, caught in the inevitable inertia that his brother offers (that his brother is), that gravity to him that was a source of envy and distaste just decades before.

Besides, Alfred just gave up his cowboy hat for a pair of goggles.

"You sure you should be driving?" he bellows, throat raw. Freezing air stings at his skin and eyes. "I-Isn't this d-dangerous?"

"Ain't no one on these roads, Matty." Alfred honks the car horn and smirks at the desolate bleakness ahead of them, the pastures covered in snow and darkness. "And I got a whole mess of know how handling these things during the war, so we'll be alright."

Matthew shoots him a glance. "You did, did you?"

"Yeah… "

"Where are we going?" questions the Canadian, eager to get past the little slip up, the almost-plunge into the clutches of taboo. "I have no idea where we are, Al."

"I don't know," hollers Alfred, and to Matthew's horror, suddenly let's go of the wheel, crossing his arms across his broad chest. "No-fucking-where?"

Just like that, a large portion of Matty's sobriety returns, fun times over.

"A-Alfred! That isn't funny!"

Grinning ear to ear, Alfred shrugs and unfolds his great legs to stand --

"For goodness' sake, Alfred!" Matthew ducks and elbows Alfred, who only barks with amusement, back down. With a muffled yell, he takes hold of the controls and guides the automobile back onto a stable path. In an awkward arrangement of limbs to which he nearly positions himself right on the larger man's lap, he gradually slows their journey, putting more and more weight on the brakes until they're eventually sitting in the middle of the road, stark still.

It's quiet.

The high beams exist as the only defenders against Hellish obscurity, and Matthew realizes for the first time how late it must be, how much exhaustion has built up in his muscles. Limply, he slides off his brother and leans against his shoulder, warmth against warmth. Together in erratic harmony, they breathe little white clouds of condensation, puffs of carbon dioxide in the harsh winter atmosphere.

In their proximity, Matthew can sense his brother shiver.

Then, the American reaches over and sets the gears to park. "You're a good pilot, too, huh."

"This isn't a game," snaps Matthew, but then sighs and brushes snowflakes from Alfred's sleeves, "I've got plenty of experience as a pilot as well, Al."

"Really? In the – "

"Yeah, that." He nudges him in the side. "You forgot."

Chortling, Alfred digs his face against the nape of Matthew's neck. "Wouldn't 've if you brought that bear of yours with you."

"Kumajirou?" Matthew smiles."You could just visit me if you want to see him so bad."

"Don't wanna." Alfred looks at him. "Cause you're already here, aren't ya?"

Thoughts of frostbite, snow ins and most of the all the common cold come to mind, and Matthew intertwines their fingers, lips pursed into one flat line in the absence of an answer.

&

And he's sprawled out in his brother's shirt and shorts that are a few sizes too big for him on couch imported from Antonio's place. In the carnival motion of a carousel, the ceiling does a few somersaults, spins clockwise, counter clockwise, back again, and he swears the movement to the beat of the music still thumping downstairs. He peers through his lopsided glasses in the darkness in attempt to set reality straight with the energy exertion of a few well aimed squints.

"Al?" he asks suddenly, gaze trained in dazed intensity on the trash bin in the corner of the room.

From the bathroom: "Yeah, Matty?"

"What's the F in your name stand for?"

A sneeze.

Matthew laughs in spite of the soreness of his abdomen. Too much partying, he supposes, too much ale. "You do know what it stands for, right?"

"'Course I do!" Alfred appears in front of the bathroom doorway and places his hands on his hips. "Fucken! My name's Alfred Fucken Jones!"

Briefly, Matthew stops to stare. Scars, some centuries old, some weeks young. From Arthur, from Francis, from Ludwig, and when Alfred turns to reveal the faded burn marks on the vulnerable flesh of his wrists' bellies, from Matthew himself. This fails to disturb the younger man though, for his body is just as tallied with history and battles, blood split between sibling versus sibling, father versus son. He just doesn't walk around with his pajama shirt unbuttoned for the entire world to see.

Then a pillow slams into Alfred's handsome face, "M-mayday! Mayday!" and Matt shakes his head in disbelief, "Aw, sure it is."

"Go to sleep! You'll disturb Lithuania," whines Alfred, and his neighbor simply rolls his eyes and shifts on his side.

&

{ Matthew stands, shoulders thrown back and squared to military attention, flame held an arm's length distal from his body. Behind him, Alfred's White House groans in its transition from edifice to ash, from majesty to ruin. His fists clench with rage; his men's rifles swing north. It's the burning oxygen that waters his eyes, he thinks.

A gunshot booms from across the distance.

"Sod off, Alfred," he screams, tone cracking from the commanding tenor in his phrase. Kumajirou roars as if making up for the stutter, narrow minded bestial rage focused only of the spans of pristine Canadian land now crushed beneath the filth and greed of American feet. "You wouldn't listen, brother."

Another bang, this time closer. Silhouettes march forward, shadows warped, twisted, illusions of monsters.

Through the grinding of his teeth, he exchanges fire for weapon and takes aim. "You wouldn't listen!"

The sky takes this opportunity to cry. }

&

0500, and the apartment fills with the screams of two soldiers remembering.

0502, Matthew falls back to sleep.

0506, hands over ears, he blocks out the noise.

&

Over a steaming hot cup of coffee, Matthew glooms and looms over the dismal remains of a bad dream. That and one dreadful hangover and the sudden arrival of a raw throat.

"Something the matter, Mister Williams?" asks Lithuania, somehow startling Matthew to nearly dropping his mug and spilling its contents every which way.

"N-no!" The Canadian is quick to shake his head NO, cleaning droplets of his split breakfast with the back of his palm. "Don't worry yourself with me!" He lowers his gaze. "We must have kept you up last night."

At that, Alfred's hired help stiffens. "I-I swear I didn't hear anything, Mister Williams!" A nervous laugh. "Nothing at all..."

That elicits a curious blink and a frown from the young man, creases between his brow forming quickly. "Not even when we came in?"

The older man only chuckles and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, movements slow, lethargic, but nowhere near clumsy. The art of changing the subject. "You two are so similar."

This time around, Matthew chokes on his toast.

&

Farewell has them standing side by side, the both of them firmly planted on their respective territories. Atmosphere faded, Alfred's car in the background exhausting little clouds of dark gray pollution on one side versus Matthew's bear gnawing faithfully on a lamp pole on the other. To breathe, Matthew finds, sends pin pricks of pain surging through his abdominal cavity up to the space between his eyes, but through it all, he smiles.

"Ah... thanks for the good time." The echoes of unrest from Matthew's people resound through his very bones, his body, his heart. Very slowly, the two countries pull apart, now looking within rather than each other, gazes failing horribly to meet.

But Alfred still smirks when Matthew leans in to press lips against his cheeks. "I hate you way less than I do the rest of them, Matty."

Matthew laughs and turns to head home. "Goodbye."


	4. I'll Burn This Whole City Down

**WWII**

"Are you sure about this?"

Alfred stands behind his brother, who sits in the makeshift barber's chair with his head bowed, his hands curling and unfurling with nervous energy in the cradle of lap. In the broken mirror shards set in front of them, Alfred catches Matthew's gaze between the wavy golden locks(Francis') that fall forward and blanket his face like a front stage curtain.

( Yes. )

With a nod and a shrug, Alfred sighs, "Suit yourself."

Twin open mouthed scissor blades caress the strands of hair that touch the tips of Matthew's shoulders, and bite down with a snap.

&

"Why I'll be darned. Did I just come across a doppelganger, mister?"

It's a centuries old joke, even feels rusty and overused in Alfred's dehydrated mouth, but for once, there's no mock or malice behind those words, no intent to hurt. There's only a strange, unfamiliar pride, warm and welcome in the heart of this winter war. They stand side by side, uniforms identical with their shared insignia, soot and shoe polish caked on their skin and hair. Blackened so the whites of their eyes shine out like beacons in the dark, so their eyes become the only clue as to who is who, which is which.

Matthew elbows him in the ribs, cracks a small smile and snaps a dry retort. T-minus half an hour until the mission starts, and his gentle voice soothes Alfred's adrenaline pumped nerves, calms his pent up anger down to a cool as cold as the gunmetal rifle in his grasps.

"That's the point," Matthew murmurs. "That's what we want them to think."

"What?"

In Matthew's silent stare, Alfred sees Winter.

&

Crack!, and Alfred hisses in German, "Why did you do that?"

"S-sorry," but there's no taking back a human life once taken, "I didn't mean to -", but there's no twisting that man's head back into place, no fixing that neck with band-aids and stitches. There's no information to be extracted from the broken corpse at his brother's blood soaked feet.

"It's okay." Alfred reaches for Matthew blindly, squeezes an arm reassuringly. "There will be more. We're not done yet. Just - wait until I'm finished talking. Okay, big boy?"

There's a pause, but the comforting gesture is returned in the form of a punch at his bicep, "You talk too much, Al."

"Cause I got shit to say, you prick."

They share an intimate laugh, then double-time back inside the retreat of the forest. Winter devours the cadaver left behind in a heavy blanket of snow.

&

As Matthew sleeps, Alfred finds it, folded up and hidden away in the depths of his brother's coat pocket. He meant to bum for an extra cigarette and revealed a handful of something else entirely.

"Shit," mouths Alfred. He's not supposed to see this.

A weather worn black and white photograph, a beautiful girl with braids that shimmered and glowed despite the poor grainy quality of the picture.

Shit.

He still steals a cancer stick, though.

&

Next time around, Alfred holds the weapon and Matthew talks. His accent is spotted with French, yet neither of them mind. Francis would have like it that way.

Knees compress the enemy's chest, a knife kisses the swell of the enemy's throat. Alfred takes care that his body encompasses the man's vision, that his body is a towering mass in a nightmare world. He wonders in the back of his mind, if the man thinks he's dreaming. Must be. They've penetrated their enemy's defenses and have made death beds of the places where they've let dreams take them. Places once deemed as safe.

Not anymore.

From the corner of the room, Matthew whispers questions in low, bedtime tones. He sounds almost kind, casual as he tears vital data from the confines of the enemy's mind. Alfred nearly allows himself to relax.

"That's it," Matthew finally announces, "He knows no more."

A simple shrug, and Alfred raises the knife -

but then Matthew presses up behind him, molds like a puzzle piece against his back, and guides his hand to slit the man's throat. Liquid warmth spurts out onto both of their fingers, turns 'em slick; and the enemy gasps his lasts breaths with twin devils staring down upon him.

"We're not done here," coos Matthew, lullaby deep, chin digging comfortably into Alfred's broad shoulder, "We're not done."

&

"So do you love her?"

In the morning light, Alfred takes a drag from Matthew's cig and glances at his brother, who stands with his head turned towards the forest, his hands clenched around the paper in his pockets. The one with the a single name etched on the back: Yekaterina.

Matthew doesn't look back, just scoffs with a tired sigh and wipes his bruised mouth with his dirty sleeve.

"Das dicke Ende kommt noch," reminds Matthew. The worst is yet to come.

( Yes. )

-

http : // en . wikipedia . org / wiki / Devil % 27s_Brigade


	5. Nightmare

**WWII**

Alfred rests on blood soaked ground and watches Matthew die in the broken picture show on the back of his eyelids.

He is not human. The mechanics in his head are the gears that work within his lands and his people; the will of millions drives the direction of his, the state of his land equates to the state of his body.

He is not human, but tonight within the confines of the depths of his subconscious, he dreams of his twin brother. His. Of Matthew in the fragile doll shell of a mortal, of that shell breaking like glass at a fissure in the chest. One bullet hit to the heart, and a fountain of insides, outsides, red, red, red.

A noise. Crunching snow. Alfred swallows and looks up.

Through expressionless coal eyes, Kumajiro stares at Alfred from across the dream-scape. They are encased in a great white expanse dirtied only by the lump of color that is Matthew's corpse. A lump of color that bleeds and expands, a birth of a new sea that smells of iron and gun powder.

Kumajio, great and looming spirit bear, places a powerful(predatory) paw on Matthew's chest, as if attempting to block the sea from leaking out. It bows, its steady gaze never straying from Alfred's, its stare an anchor to the numbness enveloping in Alfred's fingers – Kumajiro bows before its master and nudges the face beneath it with its nose. Gentle.

Matthew does not wake.

The tundra booms. Something twists and crumbles within Alfred, and he falls to his knees, hands pressed over his ears. In his dream, Kumajiro blames him with a voice that quakes the ground beneath them and causes waves and ripples in Matthew's red. Blames Al for his Master's death, his home's demise.

You failed.

A scene, seen through the cross hairs of a sniper rifle: Matthew ahead of him, head shot. Brains and bits of skull. Thin wire glasses. Alfred couldn't, he couldn't find the enemy sniper in time -

You were supposed to protect him.

A scene, Germany: Matthew behind him. A knife in the dark, a slit throat. Garbled noise, words seeping out through the gaping opening at the neck. Then silence.

He was(is) your brother.

A scene, many scenes, a blur of film and static: Matthew far away. Grenades. Fire raining from the skies. A shrapnel. A plane crash, Matthew in a plane, Matthew -

Part of you (him, you love[d] him, will always love him though you've betrayed him and he's betrayed you and scars, so many scars, how many of them did you give him, how much of him have you torn apart) is gone.

A scene: blackness. The sea drowning his ankles has pigmented darker than black, the sea is now the night sky, endless space, and they all float on in nothingness.

Your fault. Kumajiro's voice echoes in the middle distance.

Ice forms on the edges of Alfred's ribs. Creeps inwards and forms the layers of fat around his heart. He cannot move. Cannot speak. Cannot even cry as Kumajiro roars his grief and sinks his teeth into his Native lands, as he devours the fading essence of his country, of his friend.

your fault, your fault, your fault

and suddenly Kumajiro's jaws are Alfred's teeth, the bear's claws – his nails. Alfred blinks, and suddenly he is the one huddled over Matthew, nostrils flared in the scent of rust and guts and love and Matthew. He screams, he wails, he tastes his brother's bones in his mouth and

my fault, my fault, my fault -

Alfred rouses in the morning light.

When he shifts in his gear, Matthew's arm around his waist keep him from moving.

Together, they are positioned as they were when they were first conceived, intertwined like two snakes in the womb of the New World. If Alfred palpates the radial pulse underneath the layers of his brother's wrist, he can count the beats of his heart.

Footsteps crunch in the distance.

His men, Matthew's men, their shared brigade(The Devil's). In a little while, they will have to rise again, fight again, but now, not now.

Slowly, Alfred adjusts and turns and gathers Matthew in his arms. His brother, his twin. Entangles fingers in filthy golden curls and listens to sleep heavy breaths as he puts his lips on Matthew's cheek and sighs, open mouthed. Ridges of his teeth ghosting his brother's skin.

**"Please don't go. I'll eat you up, I love you so." **

_- Where the Wild Things Are_

**

* * *

**

Footnotes: http : // en . wikipedia . org / wiki / Devil%27s_Brigade

Also, I hate formatting things.


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